The Goat and the Ram
by Mijacogeo
Summary: A new 'folly' feature makes an appearance in the newspaper, much to Watson's amusement. Holmes, however, is uncharacteristically stricken by it…
1. Tuesday

**Title:** The Goat and The Ram: Part 1  
><strong>Author:<strong> moondreams87  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> Holmes/Watson  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None, really  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> This part - 4,558  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I do not own any characters herein, they belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This is just the product of an overactive imagination…  
><strong>Summary:<strong> A new 'folly' feature makes an appearance in the newspaper, much to Watson's amusement. Holmes, however, is uncharacteristically stricken by it…  
><strong>Author's Note #1:<strong> My first Holmes fic! I've no idea where this came from, to be honest, I just ran with it. I have to apologise that it's only part one, I have been trying to write this for months and keep getting distracted. I figure if I post something and maybe people like it, it will give me the kick up the backside I need to finish it! (I have the end complete, it's just that middleyness...)  
><strong>Author's Note #2:<strong> My knowledge of Victorian newspapers is next to nothing so please excuse inaccuracies, I used much artistic license, haha. I also apologise if Holmes is OOC, I am of the belief that Watson is the one person that can make him take leave of his senses and this is basically an illustration of that! Using the commonly attributed birthdays of January 6th for Holmes and March 31st for Watson. Oh, and despite my Tony/Steve fangirly-ness, the mention of a Captain Rogers in this fic was purely unintentional as I wasn't in the fandom when I wrote it, I just left it as is because it amused me. Anyway, hope you like!

_Tuesday_

"Hm." The small sound, one of surprise and interest Holmes noted, drifted to his sharp ears from across the drawing room as he concentrated on measuring the rather potent chemicals that had arrived that morning.

"A case, Watson? Something that might drag me out of this dull stupor I find myself in?" He asked, never taking his eyes off his task at hand but acutely aware of Watson flicking the paper down to watch him.

"Afraid not, old boy. In fact, it seems even the press are having a hard time finding things worthy of print as they've added this rather odd feature today."

"Oh?" He felt he should respond, for the doctor's sake, despite the fact that he had instantly lost interest. Anything that didn't pertain to potential work was not worth his attention right at that moment. But he wasn't so far gone in his black mood to shut Watson out, he rather liked having him around when he was lost for things to do.

"Horoscopes. It says that by analysing the stars and planets' alignment alongside the date of your birth, they can predict what is in store for you in the future."

Holmes scoffed, both at the description and the slight fascination in the doctor's voice. Still focusing on his measuring, Holmes responded, "There is nothing new about people reading the stars to determine certain courses of action; it can be dated back to the Ancient Egyptians, even. It is, however, complete nonsense. There are far too many factors within a single life – friends, family, environment, health, location – for things to be determined by something as ambivalent as celestial bodies."

This time it was Watson's turn to scoff, shaking his head in an unsurprised manner, "Really Holmes, is there such little room for folly in that logical mind of yours?"

"Quite so, Watson. The stars wouldn't have told me who had run off with Mrs Haverington's jewels or divine who murdered that poor fellow we found behind the Punchbowl last month. Data will. Always data, Watson, nothing is more reliable than the mind."

"_Your _mind, perhaps. Forgive us mere mortals if we wish to indulge in the illogical once in a while."

Holmes merely waved at him dismissively. "You are free to do and read what you please. But I have even less hope for the minds of this great city if they are being subjected to such bunkum. By people we rely on for cold, hard facts no less!"

Watson emitted a long-suffering sigh as he chose to ignore the despondent Holmes, looking over the article to find the passage relevant to himself.

"Ah-ha, here I am: Aries. Let's see…Huh. 'You will find yourself caught up in a whirlwind romance which will not be short on passion, danger and drama.' I think I get enough danger, already, don't you?" Watson asked, with a light-hearted laugh.

He looked up to see Holmes quickly roll the tenseness out of his shoulders and concentrate with a renewed ferocity upon his chemicals. When an unprecedented silence fell upon the room, Holmes looked up in Watson's direction to find the doctor looking back at him with an expectant expression, paper still poised in front of him.

With an exaggerated roll of his eyes, Holmes spoke up, "Fine, if you insist on dragging me into this inanity…January 6th." His lips twitched in the smallest of smiles as he watched the boyish glint in his doctor's eyes as they roamed the page for the relevant passage.

"Oh, Holmes. Who could you have upset now?" Watson said with a mock sigh, smothering a laugh as Holmes frowned at him in annoyance at being strung along. "Capricorn: 'Your relationship with a friend will be ending soon, reasons cited being a need to develop and move on.' Dear, oh dear."

Watson looked up a second too late to see the spectacular way Holmes' face blanched, before instantly straightening out into something perfectly neutral. He shrugged, aloofly, "If that is their prerogative, they are entitled to do so. I don't need friends that are not happy being such." He replied, rather rigidly.

"Quite." Watson countered, albeit somewhat reservedly, sensing that something had just happened to dampen the jovial atmosphere but not being able to identify what. They sat in silence for a few more minutes before Watson caught sight of the time.

"Hang it all! My patients; I completely forgot! Excuse me, won't you, Holmes? I have an early appointment."

Holmes waved him off in a shooing motion as he poured some volatile substance into a beaker, not even bothering to bid him goodbye as he slipped out of the door.

He listened intently until he heard the seventeen steps be descended and the front door opened and closed before turning his attention to the paper that now lay folded in Watson's chair, scowling at it like it had just insulted him.

Abandoning the experiment he had actually completed 10 minutes prior, he grabbed the offending material, opening it at exactly the right page.

_The Daily Horoscopes – Your Future Written in the Stars_

He scoffed again, the absurdity of it all very apparent to him and yet he couldn't stop his eyes from seeking out the image of a goat and the damning sentence beside it.

_Your relationship with a friend will be ending soon, reasons cited being a need to develop and move on._

He read it several times, digesting each and every single word but really only focusing on two: A friend.

_A _friend.

The only problem was, Holmes only had one friend. Or at least, only one person he deemed worthy of friendship. And this friend was about to get caught up in a 'whirlwind romance' and leave him. Of course, it seemed fairly obvious now. Now that his practice was taking off and he was getting substantial business, he would want to build his career and settle down with a family; something that would be an impossibility when he is wasting his time being dragged on wild chases in the underworld of London. Not exactly the place for a respected doctor like John Watson.

Holmes suddenly burst out laughing; just one, loud bark that echoed through the empty room. This was ludicrous! The great Sherlock Holmes falling victim to the ramblings of astrologers and their hokum. With an air of superiority, he dropped the paper back onto Watson's chair, deciding to partake in much more worthwhile activities like sulking on his tiger skin rug.

Which was how Watson found him hours later when he returned home. A quick glance at Holmes' seven per-cent solution and Watson let out a quick breath, relieved to see that it seemed to be untouched.

"Still no cases, I take it?" He said, breaking the heavy silence as he shrugged out of his jacket and set about stoking the fire.

Holmes didn't bother opening his eyes as he sardonically quipped, "Excellent deduction, Watson. We'll make a detective of you yet."

Watson chuckled, kicking Holmes in the ribs so he would at least sit up and appear somewhat presentable. Looking at the doctor, Holmes could immediately tell that it had been a rough day, probably down to the recent bout of influenza that had been plaguing the city. He stood himself up and made his way over to the tea-tray that Mrs Hudson had brought in minutes earlier in anticipation of the doctors arrival home.

"I believe that today has been a rather unwanted experience in both of our cases and so, might I suggest that we see it out with some tea, then maybe later some brandy and one of the finer cigars in our possession?"

Watson gave a small smile, surprised at the detective's thoughtfulness. Not that he was never thoughtful, but when he was suffering a lack of work, he just tended to want to keep to himself.

"I would like that very much, Holmes."

Holmes passed him the steaming beverage, taking his own as he settled back down on the rug.

"My day wasn't a total loss, though, I suppose." Watson suddenly said after several minutes of companionable silence.

"Oh?" This time, an 'oh' of actual interest.

"One of my patients, Charlie…His governess brought him in today; Mary. Quite a remarkable young woman…"


	2. Wednesday

_Wednesday_

Breakfast was an unusually quiet affair.

Watson had come to learn the cues of if and when Holmes was in the mood to talk and, judging by the strains of melancholic violin symphonies that had drifted to his room at three that very morning, he accurately surmised that this was a non-talking morning.

Holmes never did look particularly healthy but he looked especially gaunt this morning, idly poking at his toast with little enthusiasm. Every time Watson inhaled particularly deeply, signifying his attempt to speak, he noticed Holmes' shoulders tense almost imperceptibly and instantly changed his mind, taking another mouthful of his own toast.

He read the paper in silence, choosing instead to circle any articles that he thought may appeal to the detective, adding his own comments beside the column. He didn't know why, Holmes was obviously more than capable to work his way through the paper himself without scribbles all over it, but Watson was feeling a distance between them that he wasn't prepared to encourage. It made him feel better, at least.

9:30 arrived and Watson excused himself to run his usual errands. Though he wouldn't admit to it, he stalled a little to see if Holmes would speak any word to him on his imminent departure but when nothing was forthcoming, Watson bit back a sigh and ducked out of the room and the building.

Once Holmes had calculated that Watson was a suitable distance away, he bounded the few short steps across the room to the doctor's chair to grasp the newspaper he had discarded on the cushioned seat.

Instead of going straight to the horoscopes as he had intended, his eyes caught the random scribbling's of his companion dotted over the agonies. Completely unbidden, a fond smile flitted across the detectives features before straightening out as he remembered his task at hand. Those infernal star readings. Why he was even entertaining the idea, he had no clue; he just knew that he needed to see what they claimed would happen today. So that he may laugh at it, of course.

_Aries – You will be the centre of someone's affections today. While you may feel inclined to brush them off, perhaps for professional reasons, you should embrace the compliment._

Holmes frowned to himself. Of course Watson would be complimented, he is an exemplary specimen of a human being, this was hardly a prediction. So why did he bristle at the thought of someone offering their affection and Watson happily accepting it? It was simply preposterous and therefore irrelevant so Holmes immediately rejected it, eyes running down the page to find his own 'fortune'.

_Capricorn – You must be there for others today. A close family member or friend is in need of advice or comfort; be there for them with the right words or gesture._

Another frown. Holmes wasn't exactly known for his tact when it came to others and, while he was almost unmatched in his ability to read motives and crime scenes, he was ghastly at reading emotions at close proximity.

Of course, it was all nonsense. Didn't even bear dwelling on. With an exaggerated harshness, he threw the paper back on the chair before turning to some case notes he intended to peruse all morning.

Watson made a brief appearance around midday to partake in a quick lunch and he looked positively grim.

A quick full-body scan from those all-knowing eyes told Holmes everything and his gut clenched in sympathy.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, as the doctor almost collapsed in his chair.

He looked up at Holmes with a blank expression, not even having the energy to be surprised or to question how exactly the detective had come to the conclusion that he had lost a patient, was attacked by a dog on his way home and his leg was giving him serious jip (for he knew without a doubt that Holmes had surmised all of this).

"I don't really want to talk about it…"

A pause… "You must realise, old boy, that there was nothing you could have done. You are a fine physician and I know that you would have done everything in your power-"

"Holmes."

This time Holmes knew to actually stop talking as he took in the pained expression of his friend; a pointed finger rubbing across his brow. "Quite. My apologies."

Watson sighed before deciding that he wasn't in the mood for food after all and silently departed Baker Street to continue with his necessary work.

While Holmes may not have been an expert in the emotions department, he _did_ know that he despised seeing such a look of dejection on Watson's features. He was usually of such high spirits that the few times he was in such doldrums, it was very disconcerting.

His eyes fell on the newspaper once again, glaring at it as he worried his lower lip between his teeth in a rare display of indecision.

With a sudden huff, he grabbed his coat and hat, heading out of the door, case notes long since forgotten.

Three and a half hours later and Holmes had returned with no sign of Watson in the house. He sat down in his chair, placing the newly purchased bottle of port on the table next to him. It was Watson's favourite.

Why it had seemingly taken several hours to buy something so simple, Holmes couldn't begin to fathom. It didn't help that he had a habit of overthinking everything and getting side-tracked, but none of that mattered now; the important thing was that he had bought Watson a present and Watson would be happy again.

Not even half an hour passed of Holmes looking quickly between his notes and the bottle when he heard footsteps upon the stair.

An unfamiliar clenching sensation suddenly wracked his chest which he quickly identified as panic. _What did you think you were doing? A present? He's had a bad day, he doesn't want port, he wants to sleep. Or perhaps not, maybe he'll appreciate it, or he'll just think I'm being eccentric. Again. But wait! He read the paper, he's going to know what you're doing. Idiot! No, it's fine, he won't make the connection…_

…_Maybe the ribbon was a bit much._

Hearing the slow progress of the doctor up the stairs (limp had worsened throughout the afternoon, greatly favouring other leg), he made an abrupt, irrational decision. He jumped up from the chair, grabbed the bottle and hastily stashed it in a drawer in the desk before returning to his seat, draping himself nonchalantly over the armchair.

When Watson entered the room, he all but crumpled into his chair, eyes falling closed in exhaustion. He hadn't even had the energy or forethought to remove his hat and coat. Still maintaining something of his instincts, he opened his eyes to look directly up into Holmes' gaze as he loomed over him, cup of tea in hand. Watson accepted it with a grateful smile and a contented hum as the liquid soothed the tension from within.

Holmes remained blessedly silent for a good half an hour, watching and waiting for all the familiar signs of a relaxed Watson. Ten minutes after this state was obtained, Holmes broke the silence.

"You brought something back."

The statement shook Watson out of whatever reverie had overtaken him and all he could do was stare at Holmes in sleep-induced confusion.

"I noticed that your Gladstone bag was heavier than when you departed this morning, no doubt adding further insult to your injury."

Watson frowned at the bag at his feet before the confusion cleared and a pleasant smile broke through, subconsciously echoed by his friend. He opened the bag, pulling out a medium sized bundle of fabric.

"Do you remember that lady I spoke to you about yesterday; Mary?"

Watson began to untie the package on his knees, missing the impressive speed at which Holmes' smile turned into a scowl. "I have a vague recollection…"

"She managed to catch me for the brief moment I was at the practice to deliver this wonderful package of scones. She made them fresh today, as a thank you for taking care of Charlie. Charming woman, charming…"

Holmes had to fight down the sneer as he watched the fond expression cross the doctor's face as he re-arranged the scones. Deciding he was no longer interested in the evenings proceedings, he snatched up his violin and began plucking out a grating tune while turning his thoughts inwards.

He was aware of movement but paid it no attention, not even when Watson called to him from the kitchen downstairs. The footsteps returned, the doctor now carrying a tray of buttered scones and a jar of jam, which he set on the table. He then heard something about sending a note to Mary (wonderful, delightful, _charming_ Mary) to say thanks.

Seconds later, a strange silence filled the room beneath Holmes' plucking.

"Holmes?"

_Go away._

"Holmes, what is this?"

The detective huffed loudly as he halted his 'playing', facing Watson who was poised in front of the desk. Bottle of port in hand. Holmes' mind stuttered to a halt.

"It was in my drawer," Watson clarified when no response seemed to be forthcoming.

His _drawer. Where he keeps _his_ correspondence materials. You _know_ this. Idiot!_ "Why, it appears to be a bottle of port, old boy. Must have strayed."

"…It has a bow around it."

_That farcical bow!_ "So it does. Ah, I remember now, it was a present…from a client. Captain Rogers, that was it. Saved him from a bit of bother. Don't know how it came to be there." Holmes went back to plucking at his violin, a little more violently than before.

"…The tag reads '_For Watson'_."

The plucking abruptly stopped again. "…Does it? Oh, well he must have-"

"In your handwriting."

Holmes never thought he'd see the day when he'd curse his friend's growing observational skills but he was drastically running out of exits from this potentially humiliating fiasco.

"Fine! If you're going to be so insistent, it was for your birthday. There, are you now satisfied?"

"My birth-? Holmes, my birthday isn't for another nine months!"

"Confound it, Watson! Just let it be!" Holmes hadn't meant to raise his voice so dramatically, in effect startling them both. But what startled Watson more was the edge of desperation and vulnerability that had seeped into the exclamation.

Watson lowered the bottle onto the table, not sure what to do with himself. Holmes carded a hand through his dishevelled hair before giving a loud sigh. "I bought it this afternoon, after seeing what sort of a day you were having. I thought it might…anyway. It was frivolous and unnecessary and-"

"It's my favourite," Watson interrupted, causing Holmes to make eye contact but to break away only moments later.

"Well, naturally. You should know by now, my dear Watson, that I never do anything by halves." They both laughed softly, feeling slightly more on familiar ground.

"Thank you," Watson replied, genuine affection in both expression and voice but Holmes waved it away; the pink tinge to his ears the only thing betraying his embarrassment.

The rest of the evening was spent sharing the port and Holmes regaling the doctor on several of his previous cases, silently thrilling as he watched Watson's eyes shimmer with intense interest and how his hand scribbled excitedly in his journal.

Holmes retired to bed not long after Watson. He put out the fire, returned the remainder of the port to the drawer and moved his sharp gaze over to the table.

If he took a small (or maybe not so small) amount of pleasure at the sight of the untasted, long forgotten scones, no-one need know…


	3. Thursday

_Thursday_

Holmes awoke later than usual, the port having lulled him into an unexpectedly deep slumber. 221B was empty, the remains of Watson's breakfast still on the table along with Holmes' waiting to be touched.

As he sat down, he noticed with a pinch of dismay that there was one less scone now on the table. Dismissing this feeling as ridiculous and petty, he grabbed a scone for himself, fighting down the animosity he experienced at how deliciously crumbly and sweet the pastry was. _Damn her._

Deciding that today was going to be productive and not an exercise in futility and discomfiture as yesterday had apparently descended into, he attacked his latest monograph with a fervour he felt he should feel but actually, well, didn't.

In fact, in the hour and a half that he remained anchored to the desk, the one thing that retained his attention more than his writing, his research or his experiments was that _blasted paper!_

It lay casually on Watson's chair, just as it always did, its pages fluttering slightly from the breeze through the open window. But it _mocked_ him. Oh, how it mocked him. It was as if it could sense his need and positively thrummed in response, calling out to him from across the room.

This was obviously preposterous. Holmes knew this. But there was no harm in throwing that god forsaken piece of rubbish in the waste bin where it belonged. Out of sight, out of mind, after all.

For half an hour, at least. And then his eyes started to dart over to the waste bin, his fingers twitching in anticipation. The feeling wasn't far removed from the expectancy he felt when he contemplated opening that morocco case; the need for fulfilment and the knowledge of the flow of relief that would follow.

It had been a long while since he had experienced that, knowing how Watson abhorred his little vice. But this was how it felt, no question. Except, it wasn't humanly possible to become addicted to a newspaper. That was also preposterous.

Nevertheless, Holmes thought it best to just be done with the whole thing entirely. Retrieving the paper from the bin, he proceeded to cast it on the smouldering fire.

A grin of smug satisfaction spread across his face as he watched the flames lick at the edges of the publication. A victory is a victory, regardless of whether the opponent happens to smoking pile of paper.

A pile of paper that is now smoking. On the fire. With possible cases inside. Something to tear him out of this dull apathy. And what if Watson saw something? What if he'd gone to the effort of scribbling things for his attention? What if he read those stupid, _stupid_ horoscopes and has come to some rash decision? He wouldn't. Would he? He is rather inclined to those flashes of romantic fancy. He wouldn't. He won't.

_He can't._

With a sudden burst of uncharacteristic hysteria (something he would vehemently deny at any given opportunity in the future), he dove for the paper, patting the still flaming parts down with his hands. It proved to be one of the few occasions where logic completely abandoned that brilliant mind, not considering that he could simply go out and purchase another one.

Once the burns had been quelled, he flipped directly to the horoscopes.

_Aries – Youreconomy is looking unstable, it is time to start looking for something to ensure your future. Maybe a change of profession or living environment is on the cards._

_Capricorn – You are facing a problem of great hardship. Don't try and deal with it alone, seek out the advice of a parent or sibling._

A new living environment? It couldn't be… Watson loved it here at Baker Street. Well, he certainly didn't find it disagreeable. Although it was quite a distance from his practice. And he was currently woken up at obscene hours by ghastly violin playing and strange men looming over him in bed, calling him away to chase criminals in the early hours. Or a strange man, if you insist on being technical.

Holmes pondered on this for a while as he sat cross-legged on the floor. What exactly _was_ keeping Watson at Baker Street? He had only needed to share lodgings while he got himself back on his feet in London and he had achieved that months ago. He could easily find his own accommodation now.

_Find it_, certainly. Moving into it would be another matter entirely if Sherlock Holmes had anything to say about it.

Holmes read his horoscope again with a grimace. Parents were obviously not an option unless he wanted to hold a séance and he was quite aware he was losing his bearings already, acknowledging the tellings of stars and planets, before bringing the spiritual world into it as well.

Siblings, then. Sibling. Holmes let out a scoff and allowed himself some hyperbole when he muttered, "Not in a million years…"

_Four hours of hair-pulling, knee-shaking, violin-strangling, wall-shooting later…_

"Sherlock, what a pleasant surprise! Do come into my humble abode."

"It's good to see you haven't lost you sense of sarcasm, my dear Mycroft." Holmes mumbled as he entered the ornately decorated study of his brother's Pall Mall residence.

Mycroft sat down heavily at his desk while Sherlock remained standing, pacing in front of him.

"I would say you are distressed about something but I think that would seem rather redundant. Why don't you just come out with it?"

Of course. Mycroft was always _so_ busy, it was such an inconvenience to be disrupted from his…sitting around.

"Come now, brother. No need to get snippy. It must be something of importance for you to come to me, I am quite prepared to help if you will only admit that you require it."

Holmes the younger glared at his brother but it had no effect, as per usual, so he gave up with a sigh, looking entirely defeated.

"I need your help. Your advice, actually…"

_Three minutes and extensive explanations later…_

Sherlock looked at his brother, sternly, having ceased his incessant pacing for a moment, waiting for a response. Finally, Mycroft slipped out of his trance, looking Holmes in the eye.

"Let me make sure I have this perfectly clear, brother mine. Thanks to the good doctor, you have been made aware of these 'horoscopes'. And, despite the fact that you _know_ they defy logic and have no place within a scientific realm, you believe that they may be dictating the paths that yourself and your doctor are travelling. Thus you are irrationally panicked - don't look at me like that, Sherlock, this is quite obviously panic - that he may soon be leaving you. And, as a result of this conclusion, you want to see if I can aid you in locating some research materials and contacts that will help further your knowledge on astrology and the workings of star readings and their…merits."

"That is correct, yes."

_27 seconds later…_

Sherlock stormed out of the ostentatious Pall Mall residence of his pig-headed brother, the hysterical laughter pursuing him out of the door and down the road.

When newspapers advise you to seek advice from a sibling, they seemingly don't take into account your sibling being one Mycroft bloody Holmes.


End file.
